contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie is sipping her coffee with exaggerated primness beneath elegantly arched eyebrows and demurely lowered lashes. ]

Cake in curly ginger nests sounds dirty in any accent, but that may be easily alleviated by cleaning up after oneself once finished.

[bouchonne]

[ Demureness ruined by Byerly purring: ]

Kinky.

[ And then, to Bastien: ]

It does not sound dirty in my accent. My accent is normal. Yours is erotic.

[ Nothing Oedipal here. Nope. ]

[cozen]

[ No, not remotely.

Bastien laughs, and doesn't say the things he might say if he were less disoriented by the shifts in the mood and three-way dynamic—not disoriented in a troubled way, really. Not at this specific moment. Only unsure where the boundaries are and not the type to risk blindly slamming into one. Again.

Instead, he leans up and over to fetch himself a sausage. He does not eat it erotically, unless chomping it in half immediately is erotic to someone. And when he sits back he does it in a lower slump, with his cheek squashed against Byerly's skinny pokey shoulder. ]

I don't want to live in a swamp.

[ Not to change the subject.

A little to change the subject. ]

If do we have to flee south, can it be somewhere less wet?

[coquettish_trees]

[ Low-hanging fruit, that, but she's not one to make the same jest twice— especially not that, and especially not right now— and so she only smiles a little impishly into her coffee and waits for Byerly to defend the merits of Ferelden's awful mires. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Innocently: ]

You don't like a wetland, Bastien?

[ He steals the second half of the sausage and nibbles it far more sensually. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien opens his mouth to explain the merits of dry socks, but he looks up in time. Byerly’s sensual sausage eating. And he can’t see the look on Alexandrie’s face, quite, at this angle and with Byerly in the way, but maybe he can feel a vibe.

So he puts his hand on Byerly’s face to push his face gently, slowly, solidly toward her, until it means pushing them both, because they deserve it. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly, though, has made his bones paying attention to servants. The only people who don't heed them are fools. And he thinks he recognizes that face.

So. ]

A graceful motion, that curtsey.

[bouchonne]

[ And Byerly, obediently, tips over in Alexandrie's direction and (slowly, carefully, in a controlled fashion) smooshes himself into her. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ At first it is just a little pressure, and she smiles and presses back. Looks up, to turn the smile on him, because it is a warm one... and then her eyes widen and she squeaks in protest when he keeps going. Shortly the squeak becomes more of a squawk. ]

Mon café!

[ Laughing, she raises her arm to keep the cup level as she is smooshed. ]

Céleri coquin!

[untiltheyarent]

Thank you, messere.

[Her Trade is accented, but fluent, tuned to the ears of easterners.

She regards him for a moment, almost expectantly, either waiting to be dismissed or waiting for something else altogether: there's no indication in Fifi's expression that she doesn't know Byerly, and isn't anticipating questions.

Sati's tail begins to thump on the ground at the sounds of their voices.]

[cozen]

[ Bastien huffs laughter at celery and leans further to find Byerly again where he’s been thoroughly pushed and smooshed sideways, until his head is awkwardly but decisively resting on skinny ribs or pointy elbow or whatever else it finds.

It would be painted the other way, Bastien thinks. Narrow Byerly against Bastien’s broader chest, dainty Alexandrie against Byerly, like a set of nesting dolls. The painter would probably take a few inches off of Byerly’s height to give to Bastien, too, to make it look orderly, because the typical painter in his imagination is sort of staid and dull that way.

The thought goes nowhere poetic, once Bastien’s had it. That’s the extent of it. He settles in for the long term with a joint-adjusting wiggle. His small revenge for the you can go and the stay: he’s the boss of sitting, and this is how they’re sitting now. ]

action;

[sarcophage]

[The day after this, Leander—who rarely visits the Diplomacy office—raps thrice on the door frame.]

Good afternoon to you, Ambassador. Have you a moment?

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly does.

And yet, his answer is: ]

Not at the current time. If you have a seat, I can be with you at some point in the next hour or so.

[sarcophage]

Very well, [said without missing a step.] Thank you. Shall I sit just here?

[bouchonne]

Are you a dancer, perchance?

[ His hands rest easily in his pockets. ]

[bouchonne]

Sit or stand, here or there. As you wish.

[sarcophage]

[Here, then: near Byerly's desk.

From his satchel he slips a well-worn book and pencil, and flips to an empty page.]

[untiltheyarent]

I was, messere.

[Her tired smile says she knows what he's getting at.]

In Val Royeaux. I was called La Vulpesse by some, though any fame was limited to the brothel district.

[bouchonne]

[ And Byerly laughs aloud, and whispers into Lexie's ear - ]

Crunch, crunch.

[ Because that's the sound that celery makes. He hooks one leg around Bastien's knees to lock him in place, nestles his head down into Lexie's bosom, and settles in as well. As punishments go, this is a pleasant one. ]

I suppose altogether we make a ratatouille, no?

[coquettish_trees]

You put pine trees in your ratatouille in Ferelden?

[ Laboriously, Alexandrie manages to set her cup on the bedside table. ]

Or am I tomatoes now.

[ It's advantageous that he's already nestled in her bosom so she can use her freed hand to aid in briefly, illustratively, squashing him between her breasts before doing her own small adjustments for comfort's sake. ]

[bouchonne]

[ And Byerly keeps working for the next hour and then some, seeing if he can make Leander lose patience. ]

[bouchonne]

Hm. That rings the oddest little bell...

[cozen]

[ Bastien huffs again—unable to see, or else he might laugh for real. He wonders how much she’s happy and how much she’s pretending. But if she’s pretending she’s doing it for Byerly, who’s gone warm and silly between them, and Bastien can’t disapprove.

So he stays quiet and makes an dogged attempt to leech shadows out of Byerly’s chest through his cheek. Only the ones that belong to him: the contempt and threats and indifference he gave Byerly in one dream, the absence and uncertainty and fragility he left him with in the other, countered by being solid and steady and adoring now. For a moment he wants to leave part of it undisturbed—the everything in me and never let go of you bit, that was a lot but sort of a nice lot—but it can’t be real unless the quiet sobs before it are real, so he presses a little more firmly against Byerly’s ribs and imagines brushing that away, too.

Of course there’s no literal leeching or brushing. But it makes Bastien feel better to slouch here and try. ]

[sarcophage]

[Patience is rarely Leander's issue. Here he has his book to draw in, and almost uninterrupted focus on the man at his desk. It's clear the figures filling one page after another are of the Ambassador at work. Work itself, on the other hand—

After an hour and a half, roughly, Leander closes the book and stands.]

Forgive me, I've my duties to consider—another time, perhaps.

[bouchonne]

So soon?

[ Byerly's voice is predictably guileless as he looks up. ]

I should be wrapping up in another five minutes, no more.